A Study in Shagging
by taylorpotato
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson walk into a pub... it sounds like the start of a bad joke, but actually it's the start of Sherlock drunkenly deducing John's sexual history. Shameless smut follows shortly thereafter. The Sequel, "Almost Like a Virgin," is now posted.
1. Chapter 1

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair warning: drunk!lock ahoy. Men sexing each other. I guess you could call it dub-con because of all the boozing, but you know they wanted to do it anyway._

* * *

John had never been out for drinks with Sherlock before.

To be fair, it was for a case, but it was still a bit bizarre. He was sitting in a pub, next to the world's only consulting detective, knocking back the pints and talking about football. Why did Sherlock know anything about football? Had he researched it so that he'd be able to participate in innocuous pub conversation?

"So what exactly is the point of all this again?" John asked, sipping what must have been his fifth or sixth pint. He was frankly astonished by the fact that Sherlock had been matching his pace.

"Simple. A recent murder victim frequented this bar. We're looking for his killer."

"Yeah, but why are you getting drunk? I mean, I'm drunk. You almost never drink, so I can only imagine—"

"We're blending in, John. Do keep up."

"But what if you miss something?"

"I never miss anything, regardless of my state of intoxication. Do you have any idea how many murderers I've caught while strung out on cocaine?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

John digested the question for a moment, before deciding not to comment on it.

"Shall I prove it to you?" Sherlock drawled lazily.

"Sure," John shrugged.

"See that woman over there? Green dress, blonde hair."

"Yeah." John nodded, his eyes fixing on a decently attractive woman sitting halfway across the pub. Laughing, being chatted up by some young businessman in a clearly expensive suit.

"Married, but not wearing a wedding ring. Has… one child. Not more than two years old. University educated. Takes expensive vacations to somewhere tropical. Has had sex with sixteen different people."

John's mouth gaped slightly at that last one.

"How can you possibly know how many people she's had sex with?"

Sherlock smirked, "I can usually make an extremely educated guess, even if I often chose not to voice it."

"I don't believe you."

Sherlock bit down on his lip, staring at John with a marked intensity. It made a strange sort of anxiety rise in the doctor's chest. He suddenly felt like he was in a fishbowl.

"Twenty-three," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Sorry?" John almost choked on his beer.

"You've had sex with twenty-three people."

John pursed his lips.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"No. It's twenty-two." John muttered.

"Twenty-two women. Twenty-three people."

John's eyes widened as a strange sort of terror gripped his stomach. Of course, he was probably only incriminating himself. But he was too drunk to really control it.

"Three long term girlfriends," Sherlock's eyes scanned over John's face searching for a reaction, "eight girls dated casually. And twelve one-night stands you felt incredibly guilty about the next morning. Then the man was one of your army friends in Afghanistan. There probably wasn't penetrative intercourse, but you did everything else."

John just stared.

How did Sherlock do that? Did he even want to know? It must be terrible, walking around—enlightened about everybody's dirty secrets.

"Did I miss anything?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Four long term girlfriends, eleven one night stands," John sighed.

"Interesting… so you felt guilty about one of those girlfriends?"

"Janie. She was only seventeen and I was twenty two."

"How naughty." Sherlock let out a small chuckle and finished his beer, motioning to the bartender for another one.

"That's not a bad number, you know. Twenty-two," John said after a minute.

"I didn't say it was. And it's twenty-three, unless you're saying I'm also wrong about what happened in Afghanistan—which I very much doubt."

John chose silence as a response.

"Thought so," Sherlock flashed a smug little grin.

"Well what about you then?" John took a rather liberal sip of his pint. "Obviously I can't deduce it. So just tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"How many people you've shagged, if any." John rolled his eyes.

"A gentleman never tells."

"Well that's fine. But you're not a gentleman. Out with it."

Sherlock leaned back on his barstool, and regarded John with slightly glassy eyes. Something about the way he was smiling probably should have been frightening—it was a decidedly predatory grin. But the doctor only found it rather endearing.

"Fifty-seven."

John froze, his pint glass halfway to his mouth. He must have heard that wrong. Sherlock was asexual. Never displayed any interest in _people_. How was it even possible he'd had sex with one person?

"Did you say you've fucked fifty-seven people?" John asked in a slightly breathless tone.

"Yes. Eleven women. Forty-six men. Took me awhile to work out what I preferred."

"Which is obviously cock," John snorted in disbelief.

"Don't be crass."

"Crass? You've just informed me that you're a complete man-whore. This is hardly the time for politeness, don't you think?"

"I'm not a whore, John. I was never paid for it. I believe the word you're looking for is tart. Slut. Promiscuous individual. However, considering the fact that I became sexually active at the age of sixteen, fifty-seven partners is an average of less than three a year. Not exactly 'rock star' league."

"Fine. Whatever makes you feel better." John finished his pint and it was promptly replaced without his asking.

"Did you honestly think I was a virgin?" Sherlock leaned on an elbow, looking up at John, still chewing on his lip. "I am thirty-six years old. Certainly I've had more sexual partners than average, but I didn't think you'd be this shocked by the fact that I've had intercourse."

"I never said I was shocked."

"Your face did."

"I just—I mean, everyone thinks you're asexual. It's not just me. I've seen you get propositioned before and you always say no."

"If you're referring to Molly Hooper's fumbling advances, that's obviously not an accurate sample of London's population. Besides, I'm more interested in men."

John opened his mouth to mention the time he'd accidentally come on to Sherlock at Angelo's, but some inkling of what was left of his sobriety stopped him. He closed his lips promptly, and looked away.

Apparently this was a lot more telling than he thought it would be.

"Oh, you're thinking about how I told you I was married to my work." It was an observation not a question.

"Did cross my mind," John huffed.

"Well, for one thing, I haven't had sex with anybody in over a year. So you needn't take it personally. And—I'd known you for less than a week. At the time I was far more interested in acquiring a flat mate than a lover."

"Makes sense," John shrugged noncommittally.

"Were you terribly offended by my rejection?" Sherlock sounded oddly pleased with himself.

"For god's sake, I wasn't even trying to make a pass at you," John said, a little louder than necessary.

"Please, John," Sherlock scoffed, "it wasn't so much in our awkward little dialogue as it was in your body language. The things you can't consciously control. Flushed cheeks, increased heart rate, quickened breathing—utterly blown out pupils. You've always been attracted to me."

"I have _not_," John spluttered.

"So you're telling me that if I offered to suck you off in the men's toilet right now, you'd refuse?"

Sherlock was wearing a perfectly innocent expression. All sharp cheekbones and wide blue eyes and god—those perfect, pouty lips. John had to shake himself. Sherlock was clearly pulling his leg. Apparently he was even more of a wanker when you got him drunk.

"Very funny," John shook his head and returned to his pint.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Doesn't matter. Because both of us know that you would never do that."

"Really… what makes you so sure?"

"Sherlock, drop it."

"I've done that with plenty of other men. Why wouldn't I do it for you? It's not like you're hideous."

"Oh, thanks for that. Not hideous. Best compliment I've gotten all month."

"Don't be dramatic. You must know that you're at least decently attractive. You can convince a seemingly endless string of boring women to have sex with you, after all. And you carry yourself like someone who has a big cock."

John nearly choked on his beer again.

This was turning out to be one of the most bizarre nights he'd ever had. And when you lived with Sherlock Holmes,_ that_ was saying something.

"Sherlock, are you coming onto me? Because, this is honestly the worst seduction I've ever experienced, and I would like it very much if you stopped. Right now." John meant to infuse his voice with a certain amount of sarcasm, but it seemed to come out more as panic. Because Sherlock was still looking at him intently, and running his tongue along his lip.

"Oh your mouth says no, but your eyes say yes," Sherlock laughed.

"Seriously, stop it."

"I'd be good, John. You know I have an oral fixation. It's got a lot of practical applications, as it turns out."

The way he said the word _oral_ made John shudder slightly. It was like his voice was caressing John's eardrums in the most indecent way possible.

"I'm never letting you get drunk again." The doctor huffed.

"Why? It's the only time I'm sexual. That's the reason I haven't been with anyone in fourteen months. I haven't had a drink, or done any drugs. Besides, I thought you'd like seeing me this way."

"Frankly, it's disturbing."

"Oh," it was barely a whisper. "You're not comfortable with being bisexual. That's adorable."

"I'm not bisexual, Sherlock. It was just the one time."

"And then the few other times you repeated it."

"How do you—never mind. It was the army. In a very remote place. I didn't so much as see a woman for almost six months. Forgive me for to resorting to getting off with what was available."

"This is turning out to be quite a disappointing night, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I go through all this trouble, to get you into a bar, and pay for us both to get drunk—and you won't even acknowledge the fact that you desperately want to have sex with me."

"I—hang on. We're not even here on a case?"

"Of course not. I had to tell you something. But it's fine. I'm not going to force myself on you. It really is a pity though. We would have been fantastic."

John opened his mouth, but words wouldn't come. His brain had shut down completely. This was so beyond anything he was capable of coping with. And Sherlock was just looking at him expectantly.

"Struck you speechless, have I? That might be a first." The corners of his mouth twitched upwards slightly. "The way I see it, we have three options. Number one, I can go suck you off in the men's toilet, just like I offered. Quick, dirty, and you won't have to wake up next to me tomorrow morning. You can just chalk it up to a drunken fluke. Two, you take a cab home, I pick up somebody else who's not embarrassed about wanting to fuck me, and you can have a wank by yourself. Or three, we can go home together, you shag my brains out, and if you don't make a complete ass of yourself I might make you a cup of tea in the morning. What's it going to be?"

John's brain was moving very slowly. But really, he could hardly be blamed. Sherlock Holmes, the poster boy of sexual ambiguity, had just offered himself up to John like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"I suppose if you're really having trouble deciding, both option one and three could happen. If you think you have the stamina for it." Sherlock's small smirk had turned into a full-blown, self-satisfied grin.

"Won't this… you know… make things awkward?" John finished lamely.

"If I survived a month-long affair with Lestrade, I can certainly stand a night of passion with you. You're far less annoying."

John didn't even bother to hide his utter shock.

"And before you ask, no, I've never had Anderson. There is no amount of money you could pay me to do that." Sherlock downed the rest of his pint, and was waving his debit card at the bartender, presumably to pick up the tab.

John's head was spinning. His tongue felt heavy. But there was no denying it. His cock was half hard just thinking about it. Sherlock on his knees, those wonderful pouty lips wrapped around John's cock.

Sherlock bent over a bed, ass in the air, begging John to fuck him hard.

What was it like to be inside someone so utterly untouchable?

Probably amazing.

"Have you made up your mind yet? The waiting is becoming rather tedious." Sherlock was already standing, straightening his coat, tightening his scarf.

"Let's go home," John was almost thrown completely off balance by the words coming out of his own mouth.

But Sherlock didn't seem surprised.

"Good. I knew you'd come to your senses eventually."

And with that, Sherlock grabbed his arm and was dragging him out the door. The cold air hit John's face and a startling sort of reality settled upon him. What had he just agreed to? Fuck. Was he really about to shag his lunatic flatmate?

This was not good.

So beyond not good.

Sherlock was pulling him into an alleyway, and slamming him up against the brick wall. John's body went completely slack as their lips met.

Dear god.

Their mouths crushed together as if they were trying to devour each other. It sent impossible sparks of heat rocketing through John's nervous system. Sherlock's erection was grinding into John's hip. John parted his lips in a gasp, and the detective took the opportunity to flick out his tongue and explore the heat of the good doctor's mouth.

Sherlock was fucking him with that marvelous, clever tongue.

Twisting it, swirling it, but never in a way that was choking or overpowering. A simple tease and retreat. But every time he did it, it was more goddamned delicious.

John's brain was spinning inside his skull.

Sherlock bit down on his lower lip and dragged his teeth across it gently. John melted into him. Grabbing at his hips. Pressing the heat of their throbbing erections together though far too many layers of clothing.

Sherlock pulled back, panting.

"If we don't get into a cab, we're going to have each other right here in this alleyway."

John nodded breathlessly.

They stumbled back onto the street and Sherlock flagged down a cab almost immediately. John got in first, and then Sherlock squeezed up against him. Thighs touching. Hearts pounding.

"221 Baker Street. Fast." Sherlock's voice was a low, seductive rumble. It turned John's bones to jelly.

The detective's long, thin fingers were tracing along the inside of John's thigh.

It had no right to feel so good as it did. Then the detective leaned in close and began whispering filthy little nothings into John's ear.

"I can't wait to have your thick cock inside me, John. I've been thinking about it all evening… do you want to know what I did before we went out?" His mouth was so close to John's ear, his lips were brushing against it as he spoke.

"What?" John asked, trying not to sound as eager as he felt.

"Well, first, I stole two shots of your best whiskey. I refuse to apologize. And then, I went into my room and started fingering myself."

John had to bite his lip to suppress a small moan. The fingers that had been brushing against his thigh were now running over his cock.

"I used a lot of lube, John. I got nice and wet. I stretched myself out the best I could with three fingers—but then I realized that it wouldn't be enough. So I got out my collection of dildos and started fucking myself with them, slowly increasing the size."

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of John's lungs. God, that was a beautiful image. Sherlock, all pale skin, and dark curly hair, sprawled across a mattress, pleasuring himself with huge dildos. Moaning, gasping, writhing around… John could feel the wet spot in his pants. He was _leaking_ pre-cum.

"It was so good John," Sherlock's breath hitched slightly, "but I didn't let myself come. Instead, I stopped right before orgasm and put in my largest arse plug. It's still inside me."

"It's been in this whole time…?" John groaned.

"Yes."

"Fuck."

"That's the idea. The second we get home I want you to throw me down on my bed and fuck me into the mattress. I like to be shagged hard and fast as you can possibly manage. There won't be any need to worry about hurting me, as I've already prepared myself."

All John could do was nod. He'd never known Sherlock had such a wonderfully filthy mouth. Every word was going straight down to John's cock. Maybe it was his voice—the thundering baritone. Maybe it was that he'd never heard Sherlock swear before tonight. Maybe it was the posh accent… all of it together… John could hardly think clearly.

The cab pulled to a stop. John was dazed. Sherlock threw money at the driver and was dragging John back out onto the street, unlocking the flat, and bolting inside. Sherlock began undressing on the stairs—pulling off his coat, and unbuttoning his shirt as they reached the landing. He toed off his shoes in the living room and stripped down to nothing but his pants.

Black briefs. Of course.

John was still fully dressed. Staring. Sherlock was thin, but not nearly as boney as John had always suspected. There was a definite musculature to his lean body.

Sherlock made a small, frustrated noise, walked over to John, and pulled his jumper up over his head. John complied, raising his arms, and got the idea. He pulled off his undershirt as Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers for him, pulling down the zip and shoving them to the floor. John kicked off his shoes, and stepped out of the pile of his clothes.

There was another rather violent kiss. More teeth and tongues than lips. John's head was swimming. Sherlock had grabbed his cock through the thin cloth of his pants and was stroking it.

"It's even bigger than I thought it would be," Sherlock growled. "I need it inside me. Now."

He grabbed onto John's shoulders and steered him towards his bedroom, slamming the door behind them. Sherlock wiggled out of his pants, and clambered onto the bed. He was on all fours, looking over his shoulder at John.

All John could do for a moment was fixate on the large, flared base of the arse plug. God it was hot.

"Stop gaping and get on with it," Sherlock groaned.

"Do you have any condoms?"

"Top drawer on the night stand. Hurry up."

John pulled the drawer open and fumbled around for a moment before finding a condom. His hands were shaking. He ripped the foil with his teeth and rolled the rubber onto his cock. He almost shuddered, just at that minimal contact. It was a good thing he'd drank so much—otherwise he might have come embarrassingly fast. In fact, he still might.

This was happening.

He was about to fuck Sherlock Holmes.

How long had John secretly been dreaming about this? Since the day he'd moved in? Probably.

John kneeled at the edge of the bed, and grasped the flared base of the arse plug. When he first tried to slide it out, he could feel Sherlock's muscles clamp around it, trying to keep it in. But then it gave. Sherlock hissed as he pulled it out and set it aside.

He paused for a moment. Staring at Sherlock's stretched, glistening hole. This had to be a dream.

"Fuck me!" Sherlock barked.

John wrapped one hand around Sherlock's hipbone and used the other to position his cock, slowly sliding in. There was a good amount of resistance. More than John had expected, considering how much Sherlock had stretched himself. He paused after getting the head of his cock in, to allow Sherlock to adjust, but the detective just whimpered and pushed back—impaling himself on John's cock.

"_Move_." Sherlock's voice was tight and desperate.

John complied. He began to thrust slowly, but Sherlock was apparently having none of it. He grunted and started bucking back against John. Taking him to the hilt, and making loud keening noises.

"Hard, and deep, John," Sherlock panted. "If you can't handle it yourself, I'll just pin you down and ride you."

Well then. If he was going to be like that, John would stop holding back. He dug his fingernails into Sherlock's skin and began to slam into him. The sounds it forced out of Sherlock's mouth were utterly animalistic.

_God damn._

It was like being strangled inside an incredibly tiny furnace. So hot and tight. How was that even possible? John reached forward and tangled his fingers into Sherlock's hair, pulling slightly. Sherlock moaned.

"Talk," the detective ordered.

"Sorry?" John could barely form single word sentences.

"Tell me all about what a nasty little slut you think I am."

"Sherlock. I—"

"God, you're hopeless."

John smacked Sherlock's ass. Not that hard. Just enough to make a point. But it only made Sherlock push back against him harder.

"Yes, that's the right bloody idea," Sherlock purred. "I fucking love how you feel inside me. You're so big, John. You're filling me up completely, and it's driving me a bit mad. I think it might be one of those rare nights I come so hard I actually black out for a few moments."

John slapped Sherlock's ass again, and the detective moaned.

"You're a filthy whore," John almost had to suppress a giggle. He'd never been much for dirty talk. But hey—if that's what Sherlock wanted, why not?

"Yes, John, fuck, what else am I?"

"You're a lunatic, and I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to sit properly for a week."

"_Please_."

It wasn't sarcastic. Was that actual begging?

John pulled back so only the head of his cock was still inside Sherlock, and then he slammed back in. Pounding him, filling the room with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. When John angled downwards slightly, to make sure he was dragging against Sherlock's prostate, the detective let out a loud cry.

"Oh fucking hell," Sherlock groaned. "Just like that—oh god."

Of course, John obliged happily. Keeping the angle, driving into Sherlock relentlessly. On an impulse, he bit down on Sherlock's shoulder, and was rewarded with a series of desperate little moans.

"_John_."

"Do you like being bitten, slut? Does it feel good?"

"Ugh."

That wasn't an actual response, but John didn't really mind. He decided he should bite the other shoulder, just to keep things even.

He could feel Sherlock's muscles fluttering around him. He must be close. John reached a hand underneath Sherlock to finish him off, but Sherlock swatted his hand away.

"I can come like this," Sherlock was panting raggedly. "Just a little harder."

John didn't think it was actually possible to fuck Sherlock much harder, but he tried. Speeding up his thrusts, shoving as deep inside him as he possibly could.

Sherlock shouted.

And then he was contracting all around John, clenching in a wave of spasms, shaking, moaning, letting out strings of curse words that would embarrass a sailor. John couldn't hold out any longer. He felt the heat coil in his stomach. His balls tightened. And then he was emptying himself into Sherlock's arse. Pulsing, grunting, crashing on a wave of endorphins. His skin was buzzing. His legs were shaking. Sherlock collapsed underneath him, and he followed, sprawling on top of him.

It was absolute silence for at least a few minutes. The only sound was their collective fevered breathing. John's limbs felt like wet noodles. He was completely sapped. No energy left.

"Off," Sherlock grunted.

John sighed, withdrawing and rolling off him. Sherlock turned onto his side, facing John. He was grinning. Shit… why was he grinning?

"I think I can drink twice a week without it effecting the work too terribly. Is that acceptable?"

John blinked. "What?"

"Bi-weekly sex, John. Do try to focus. It's at least a better offer than the 'none' you're having otherwise."

He was still having a bit of trouble wrapping his mind around this. Was Sherlock setting them up a schedule to fuck on? "You mean—you want to do this again?" John asked after a moment.

"Yes. Problem?"

"No I just thought… well… I'll shut up now."

"Probably for the best."

Sherlock planted a small, rather chaste kiss on John's lips before crawling up the bed and climbing under the duvet. John raised his head, wondering whether or not that was his cue to leave.

"Do you mean you're really considering not cuddling with me after all that?" Sherlock snorted. "Here I thought you were the _sentimental_ type."

"Shut up."

But he pulled the condom off, tossed it in the rubbish bin underneath Sherlock's desk, and he got under the duvet. Sherlock wrapped his lanky arms around John, and pulled him in close. The smaller man wasn't really sure how he felt about his back being pressed against Sherlock's chest—being the little spoon. But Sherlock was so much taller it would have been quite awkward to do it the other way around.

Sherlock let out a contented sigh, breath ghosting over John's neck. It was all oddly pleasant, though he wasn't sure what he should expect in the morning. At that moment he didn't really want to think about it.

John just melted into Sherlock, enjoying the warm fuzzy feeling of the afterglow.

He was asleep within minutes.

* * *

It was much too early. John's head was pounding. He rolled over, grumbling, and came into contact with a leg. Sherlock's leg. What? Oh yes—that's right. It all came rushing back.

Sherlock was sitting next to him on the bed, cross-legged, holding a cup on tea in one hand and a book in the other. He still had sex hair, crazed and sticking up at all sorts of impossible angles. It was more endearing than it had any right to be.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock sipped the tea, not looking over at him.

"I… um… good morning—can I have a sip of that?"

"There are about five shots of vodka in it, but by all means."

"What!"

"I was getting ready for you to wake up."

"Dear lord," John groaned, "it's not even noon and you're drunk?"

"It's intoxication with a purpose John. Or did you not want to fuck me this morning?"

"That's not the point… Jesus, what's this going to be like when you sober up? I mean—we haven't even really discussed how this is going to work out. We're flatmates, for god's sake. This is all…"

"What? Are you having regrets?"

"Not really… but… well I'd like to talk about this when you're not plastered."

"Obviously."

"Are we—what are we exactly?"

"Must we label it? I mean, we already do pretty much everything a couple does besides having regular sex. Our lives will continue as normal, except I'll get drunk, and we'll shag, and occasionally I'll chuckle about the fact that Lestrade owes me twenty pounds."

"What? Did you make some sort of bet that you could bed me?" John's face blanched.

"Don't be silly. There was never any question about whether or not I could do that. He wagered that your fabulous cock couldn't be any longer than nineteen centimeters, because it would be indecent in proportion to you height. And that monster is twenty-one and three-quarters of a centimeter long at least. I wouldn't believe it unless I'd had it inside me. I knew you walked like a man with something to be proud of, but all I can say is _bravo_."

"You're awful. You know that?"

"Do you mind if I take a picture?"

"Yes."

"Come on. He's not going to pay me without proof."

"Don't care."

"I thought you'd want to make him jealous. He's barely pushing sixteen centimeters, you know."

"Please stop reminding me that you've shagged Lestrade."

"Fine." Sherlock huffed, and planted a small kiss on John's forehead. "You are rather adorable when you're cross. I can't help it."

Sherlock set aside his tea and his book and he lay down next to John, tangling his long limbs around him, pulling him into a languid kiss. He tasted like PG Tips and Grey Goose.

John didn't really mind.

* * *

_Well there you have it friends. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Special thanks to __**TheGuardian'sOfTheFishbowl**__ and __**wholockian729 **__for beta-ing. _

_Any reviews, follows and favorites will be will appreciated and snuggled._

_I mostly wrote this as a one-off, but if you guys would like to see more Drunk!Lock shenanigans, I wouldn't necessarily be opposed to writing them. My main fic is kind of consuming my life at the moment, but this was certainly a nice break._

_Cheers!_

_UPDATE: Part two "Almost Like a Virgin" will be posted on Saturday april 27th!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Hi there people who were following this fic! As you've probably noticed, this story is going to stay posted by itself. Refer to my profile page to read the __sequel. But in the meantime, here's a 221B drabble for you :D_

* * *

John stumbled home drunk after a night at the pub to find that all his blankets and bed sheets were missing. The thermostat was turned down to 20 degrees and the window was open. The frigid February air was blowing into the flat.

He walked back downstairs and checked the closet where they usually kept spare blankets, however there were none to be found.

Usually when things went missing, there was only one place to look for them. Sherlock had taken to holding some of John's more colorful jumpers hostage because—_he couldn't think while looking at them._

John opened the door without knocking. Sherlock was snuggled angelically under his own blankets, eyes closed, breathing slowly.

No spare blankets in sight. John was too tired to look for them. He stepped across the floor as quietly as possible and grabbed the corner of the duvet. It hadn't slid more than a few centimeters before "sleeping" Sherlock grabbed for it.

Fine. John gave a mental shrug before kicking off his shoes and climbing into bed next to the lanky detective. It wasn't that odd. They'd had to share hotel rooms before. Besides, it was quite warm.

* * *

He woke up with a pair of lanky arms wrapped around him. Where was he?

"Good morning, John."

Something hard was pressed against his back.


End file.
